


Mirror

by jm_serendipitous



Category: Push (2009)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, F/M, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:17:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jm_serendipitous/pseuds/jm_serendipitous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Different is the right word for you</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror

Every night you stand in front of the bathroom mirror and wonder if you could be different.

Different than the girl people side-step on the streets.

The girl people get a second look at because of the pink streaks.

The girl people undoubtedly question because of the company you keep: dangerous, unkind, unfit.

The girl that stares blankly into the open air, clutching a notebook of black pages, wishing, wondering.

You see the gaggle of girls your age prancing through the city lights, going to and leaving, engrossed in the things normal girls are engrossed in.

Could you be one of them?

The girl who goes to school every day in vogue uniforms accessorized with headbands and handbags instead of the armored black.

The girl who fusses over the futile things: boys, dances, that vindictive teacher.

The girl who cradles a spiral of math notes and not sketches of grim possibilities, searching, trying.

You know those girls don’t have visions, don’t have Sniffs chasing them or a twentysomething-year-old who cares more about keeping you alive than himself. They wouldn’t know how to react, but if they were a word, it’d be simple: freak.

Hearing that, hearing the way you live and the warnings echoed in your ear (yes, you _know_ ), you wouldn’t doubt you were different. Different than those girls, blissfully unusual. And, for a moment, you wouldn’t care.

Because you’re back in your apartment, in a sequined dress that hangs off your newly-developed curves, having been pulled off the dance floor and out of a club. Your lips find his feverishly, needing, pressing, maddening. That twentysomething-year-old is kissing you back with just as much vigor and passion (because, goddamn it, you’re not thirteen anymore!), arms tight on your waist, back against a wall.

You’re his girl.

The girl whose pink and pallid is tossed back as you arch into his hands.

The girl whose mind utters those three words, those eight letters, only for him to breathe something similar, if not the same.

The girl whose precious notebook scratched out this part to be a surprise, startling, moaning.

You run your hands down the tableau of his chest, looking into his eyes, realizing ‘different’ isn’t so bad. Not if there’s someone just as different—unusual, freaky, unique—loving you.

Different is the right word for you.

So every night you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, clutching a notebook of black pages, and wonder how you could ever want to be different.

Different than the girl with the flower, Cassie Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this drabble along with a collection of others in 2009 after first seeing the film so please forgive the writing style.


End file.
